


Daybreaker

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Community: wincestbigbang, First Time, Frottage, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Pre-Series, Slight Underage (Sam is 17), Wincest Big Bang 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys disappear from an Illinois corn town, one every five years or so. August 2000, Winchester and Sons roll heavy. Sam still slips their grasp. Dean will get his brother back. He knows. Same as he knows what he's gonna do with Sam when he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **[Art Master Post](http://bythehighwayside.tumblr.com/post/127901747522/art-masterpost-for-wincest-bb-2015-story-by)** , from [bythehighwayside](http://bythehighwayside.tumblr.com/). Show her some love!
> 
>  **Acknowledgments:** My hand-holding, ball-busting, courage-stoking beta, [crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad). All messiness is all mine.
> 
> My alpha reader, DigitalCipher, with special thanks to Mr. Lament and the Viking, for help in answering the all-important, "How do we gank it?"
> 
> And the [wincestbigbang](http://wincestbigbang.livejournal.com/) mods, who made this whole experience a pleasure.

Sweating seventy down an airstrip highway. Radio Chicago Board of Trade and Jesus Saves. Roadside corn. Corn corn co – cow! Sticky slick, like the flies look groggy.

Sulky Sammy needs his dick sucked. “Do we even know what Dad’s chasing?”

“Somethin’ evil. Does it matter?”

Fuck this Mr. October mood out of him.

“I could have stayed in Delroy.”

Room stank like come and not Sam’s cologne.

“With your little boyfriend?”

Which, he was fine. Pleased. That cherry green lit squeezed fingers, bumped shoulders, held doors.

“Dean.”

“I know. I know. Senior year. AP and shit.” Anyplace anonymous. “We end this thing, I’ll nudge Dad on you going to school.”

“You’re gonna stand up to Dad.” _Yeah, right_ hovers underneath.

_REDUCED SPEED AHEAD_

Big Brother mode: “No… yes, it’s… not gonna come to that. I just have to remind him.”

_WELCOME TO MINTIKWA_

Gonna break or spontaneously combust.

_HERITAGE  
VACANCY_

Climb out.

“You boys see what you can make of this file.” Dad shoves stuffed manila out the driver’s side window.

“Yes, sir.” Unison.

“I got interviews.” Truck rumbles. “Don’t wait up.”

“Johnnie Walker to the witness stand.”

“Sam” _my please_ … Appease the Beast.

Room key. “First shower?” Peace offering.

Maybe throw his brother across the desk. Lick his way in.

 

Six weeks ago, Texas. Sammy twisted. Stretched. Groped his ass.

“Hurts,” kid bitched, cotton bubbled between waistbands. “Bruised it playing volleyball.”

“I’ll show you a sore ass.” Swatted the not-sore cheek.

Sam jolted.

 

Wallpaper camouflages mystery stains. Carpet pattern looks like bikini girls.

Focus.

Job. File. Can’t perv his eye off the ball here. Missing boys. Forty years, irregular pattern. John Winchester Speci –

Bobby’s writing:

_John,_

_I never met a man with his head lodged so far, nor so firmly, up his own ass. Can’t even wish you dead on account of your sons. Because I can’t talk you out of being a jackass, and I already rounded up all this lore, go fuck yourself._

_Eos. Rosy-fingered Goddess of the Dawn. A.K.A Erigeneia and Aurora_

_Sister to Helios and Selene, daughter of Hyperion_

_Affair with Ares, Aphrodite lust curse_

_Known vics: Kepholos, Tithonos, Cleitus, Orion, Ganymede_

_Hope she’s not the real deal._

_Eos is a Titan. Immortal. Only weapons I know might kill her are the flaming sword of the archangel Michael, bow and arrows of Artemis, and Death’s scythe. Oh, and Sam Colt’s magic revolver, which you know damn well is a myth._

_Trick her? Plenty on immortals and riddles._

_Zeus imprisoned a bunch of Titans in Tartarus. Got a spell here:_

Ingredients check.

No one asked how Dad crossed Uncle Bobby this time. Shotgun said worse than the usual.

Last vic last seen…

In a goddamn undershirt, washed thin, nipples, ribs. Wiry arms cut and curved. Guess Sam’s through with his shower.

“Only trailer trash and twinks walk around like that.” For the fiftieth time. “Jesus, Sam.”

“And we haven’t lived in a trailer since what, Tucson?” Bare stomach at the a/c. “Tulsa?” Back a drawn bow.

 

Thirteen or so. Sam’s body asked for things his mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Didn’t judge. At that age he’d considered fucking mashed potatoes.

 

Catch Sam’s eyes. Sweep. Flash tongue. Goosebumps. “C’mon. Let’s get you dolled up, huh? Internet joint to canvass. Bound to be some geek girl there who’ll throw her panties at you.”

Full bore eye roll. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m adorable.” Bat lashes. “Now move.” Shove. “Need burger.”

 

**

“I mean, what’re we thinkin’ here?” Juicy beef, crispy bacon. Perfect pickle, not quite enough ketchup. “Alien abduction? Y’know, like if Mars needs women, maybe Uranus needs men.” Shake an eyebrow.

Sam shoots back a stare so flat you could lay a foundation on it. “Dude, that’s messed up even for you.” Milkshake red straw hollow cheeks. “And there’s no such thing as aliens.”

“As far as we know.” French fry gesture. Fat ketchup glob splats Sam’s paper.

“Dammit, Dean. Dad’ll fuckin’ freak.”

The mouth on this kid. Well, the oral fixation.

 

Teethed on his hand. Gums, later razor baby teeth mauled toddler palms. Slobbered him elbow to pinky.

 

“Bah.” Napkins. “As long as we come up with somethin’ we could hand him that paper on fire.”

“Speaking of which, can we hit the library? Run down the local rag?”

“Smart. Then the coffee shop.”

 

**

Bits and Bites, Internet café. Starbucks bar and cubicle pit wrapped in a turquoise Steak n Shake. Population: dorks.

“You ever heard of Harold Reardon?”

“No.”

 _If you say so, Dungeon Master Bill._ “He grew up around here.”

“Nuh-uh.” Flicked fingers.

Eyes roll irritation, double-take. _Well I’ll be damned._ Surveillance cameras. This town really that dangerous?

Twenty more minutes of nobody knows nothing. Makes no sense. Some of these clowns must’ve gone to school with the guy.

Find Sam.

Shrugs,  _Me neither_.

Lick lips. Smolder. Coffee bar nod.

Fistful of jacket. “C’mon, Sammy. I’ll buy you one of those frou-frou jobs with the whipped cream and the chocolate sauce.” _Lick it across your mouth. Kiss you sticky._

How’s a guy get a plain black coffee in these joints?

Girl’s voice. “Don’t usually see the likes of you around here.” Mmh. Sweet Little Sixteen. All up on Sam.

_C’mon, bro: Don’t usually see the likes of you around anywhere._

Pleated plaid skirt, pretty much a handkerchief around her tits.

Sammy stammers.

“New in town?” Red-painted lips. Tongue stud.

 

South Carolina, bought roadside peaches. Cue five miles of Sammy, tongue deep in a fuzzy fruit, juiced up both wrists, slurping.

 

They need this girl.

“Just passin’ through.” Sam’s bangs flop forward. Puppy eyes peek.

She’ll fuck Sam, and he’ll wring out every last stammering detail. Then maybe nail Sam to the bed. Eat her traces off his brother’s face.

“Lucky you. I grew up in this shithole.” Chunky red sneakers toe the tiles. “You buy me a coffee I’ll show you around.”

_He shoots he scores!_

Except, “Hey I’d love to. Tomorrow?”

“Sammy!” Low volume, high intensity. “Can I talk to you outside right now?” Disarming wink. “Excuse us.”

Big brown eyes under long black bangs, punky red slash. “Sure.” Tongue runs out, snags the stud on her teeth.

 

Tried drowning Sam in pussy. Late nights, sex stinking, wriggling out of his clothes, bragging:

“Her titties were – _luscious_ , Sammy.” Acted out cupping and nuzzling breasts. “Luscious.” 

Tongue between two fingers. “Ridin’ my mouth…”

Hands held imaginary hips, air humped. “Bouncin’ on my dick and _gettin’_ hers.”

 

Sidewalk. He will not swing at his brother. “Sam. You have _got_ to go with that girl.”

“Dean, we’re in the middle of a case. Dad would annihilate me for taking off with some girl.”

“She grew up here, man. You can talk local history.” Both fists, knuckles to heart. “She’s a _witness_ , Sammy.”

“Oh.” First hint of a smile. “Yeah?”

Caveman nod. March for the doors, Sam on his six.

“You can save this.”

Tickle. Like, the air around him flexes. Weird, but…

Hold up. Where’s the girl? “Hey, man, you – ?” Spin.

Where’s Sam?

Empty lot.

No for real.

Empty cars.

Dad’s truck rolls up. Don’t run.

“You boys find anything?” Marine eyes. “Where’s Sam?”

“I dunno. He was right behind me and I – ”

“You took your eyes off him? Knowing what we’re hunting, what _it_ hunts?”

Case wall. Boys. High school –

Shrapnel. “Sam was bait.” See literal red.

Last vic last seen…

“Oh, come on, Dean. You know I never – ”

“Then why even bring him? Except, he fits the fuckin’ profile!”

 

Fist fought Dad once. Took his beating. Made his point.

 

“A fact you apparently failed to pick up on. And watch your mouth with me.”

“Fuck. You.” Glove box. Colt. Clip, safety, jeans. “You couldn’t have thrown me a heads up?” Thinking with the downstairs brain. Idiot.

Café full of witnesses. _Do the job, Dean. Do the damn job and Sammy’ll be okay._

“I gave you the case file.” Footsteps follow. “I’ll lead interviews.”

“It’s a high school hangout, Dad.” Let Sam’s ass distract him.

“Okay.” Palms forward. “What do you have?”

“Backseat.” Key toss. “Blotters and obits, week on each side of the vics.” Damn near fed Sam to that girl.

“Gotcha.” Restaurant nod. “You – ”

Bark, “Yes, sir.” And where the hell did she go?

“We’ll find him, Dean.” Half a heartbeat, Dad’s eyes waver.

Softer. “Yes, sir.”


	2. Chapter 2

Fifteen hours (and twenty-seven minutes who’s counting). Caffeine. Rage.

Nobody noticed redwood boy or hot chick in the corn town Internet café. Okay.

Flip page.

If she wasn’t the monster she was in cahoots.

Wait. What was that?

Flip back.

“Dean. You’re not doing Sammy any good – ”

Right? Fist table coffee launch. “Sonofa, _bitch_!”

Heavy Dad hands. “Son, listen to me. Sleep. I’m callin’ in every marker I’m owed and handin’em out like parade candy. Soon as somethin’ pops, I’ll wake you.”

Lack of food, lack of sleep, lack of _Sam,_ “Dad, I…” Clamped jaw swallow. “He was… and this _thing_ …”

“I know, Son.”

John Winchester looks grim.

Bed. Guilt. Boots on, lights off. Face smash pillow.

 

**

Yellow alert… all that coffee… piss and acid.

_Sam._

No Dad.

Toilet stumble stomach rumble or… thunder?

Sick gray-green slices beige drapes. Yank. Rain-warped window.

No truck.

Fists.

Note:

_Dean,_

_Running down a lead. Dinner in the microwave._

_Dad_

Obvious afterthought,

_We’ll find him, son._

Styrofoam box of roast beef with mashed potatoes, gravy. Imagine Sam: “God, Dean, would it kill you to eat a carrot?”

[MINUTE]

Case wall. Sam’s printouts circled red.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP

August 31st, ’96. Elderly John Doe wandering Main Street. Disoriented.

Beef’s on the dry side, not so bad with the gravy. Actually could do with a couple of carrots.

_Hospital officials could not confirm the man’s identity. Police are pursuing efforts to locate his family._

In ’91 a corpse, stroke, Sixth Street.

’87, heart attack, Market.

Double-check.

August ’96. Vic last seen the 25th. Six days.

Six days.

Six days.

Shit.

So. Four days tops to find Sammy, and God knows…

Dad blasts in swiping rain off his jacket.

Shovel last bites.

“See the old-timers?” Dad stands back, hands stuff jeans pockets.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you think it means?”

 _That Sammy’s in trouble._ “That we oughta look downtown.”

“You think the old men are what’s left of the boys?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Agreed. So we need to move.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dad coat truck hustle.

 

**

Town square. “This is Main Street.” Dad marks a map. “Behind us is Mintikwa.” Red brick courthouse, rain-soaked green. “Other side’s Market then Lincoln. Fifth Street splits around the square here and…” Eyes up. “How far west?”

Granite great horned owl perched on a limb.

“Ninth.”

Redbuds line brick walks, street parking.

“All right. I’ll head up to Lincoln, you start with Mintikwa. Walk Fourth through Tenth. Recon only.”

“Dad – ”

“That’s an order.”

Grimace. “Yes, sir.”

Fourth Street. Museum of Local History, Methodist Church. Castleman’s actual Cafeteria next to an empty theater. _Jaws_ posters.

Just a guy, out for a stroll.

Mintikwa, main drag. Post office, Gas-N-Sip, Baptist church, Dairy Queen. Dive bar, looks like, down the way he’s not going. Bet he could get Sammy in there.

 

Bardstown didn’t card hard. Birthday quesadillas and wings. Darts.

“What’s the play?” Sam geared up to hustle.

“No play, kiddo, just you and me.” Hard shoulder squeeze.

“You want a straight game.”

 _Not entirely._ Trailing thumb. “Yeah. Wanna see, how bad, you are at darts.”

“I’ll kick your ass.”

“Step to the line.”

 

Mike’s Auto Repair and Rainbow Florist, two insurance agents. _OFFICE SPACE FOR RENT_. First National Bank.

Church in a storefront. Light of the Morning Ministries. Light of the… Can’t be.

Cult? Just, out here on the main drag? Urge to storm the place. Tamp down.

Sonic. Yeah, Sonic. North on Ninth. Take Sam. Kid’s got a thing for their burritos: “It’s a fast food breakfast with actual vegetables, Dean.” Pft. Like jalapeños count.

Must not rush in. Whole town’s gotta be in on this. Or at least, aware.

Tenth Street. High school. _HOME OF THE OWLS!_

Market: ranches, bungalows.

Past Seventh, two blocks of hundred-year-old brick. Crash Comics, Nail and Needle – crafts? TV/VCR repair.

 

Slipped Sam seventeenth birthday shots. Only like, a couple-three. Nobody got stupid.

Sam got wide and loose. Palmed ribs. Middle fingers probed definite nipple vicinity.

“Take me home?”

Poured into shotgun. Fingers. Inseam. Ear to the seat eyes all over mouth wet enough to glisten in streetlights.

 

Cubby’s Kitchen: _BEST DEEP DISH THIS SIDE OF CHICAGO_

Thrift store. Hoot n’ Holler high school logo crap. Mintikwa Power. Kid clothes at Buttons n’ Bows. Another church.

 

Dad’s truck.

“…for your birthday.”

Kroger cake, fancy calculator, brown-bagged bottle and a job in Jasper.

Won points serving Sam beer. Lost more dragging Dean to Tennessee.

 

Square.

Across the green Dad strides long, shoulders hunched. “Tell me you found something.”

“She has a church.”

“A church.”

“Light of the Morning Ministries? Be a hellofa coincidence – ”

“You know what I think about coincidences.”

“Yes, sir.” _Connections no one’s made yet._ “You think Sammy’s in there? We gotta check it out, Dad, we gotta – ”

“Get the spell ready.”

Teeth grind. “Yes, sir.” Never much a prayin’ guy, but _Anybody listenin’?_ “Bobby’s notes said ambrosia. Only thing we didn’t have.” _Please keep Sammy safe_.

“I know. Got some guys working on it.” Keys. “I’ll drop you off at the motel. Gear up. Back in a couple hours, tops.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

**

Diner glows bright white and red. Jog. Duck a semi. Slip a booth. Pretty waitress, company t-shirt and short black shorts with chunky red –

“You!” Black gone blonde, red to pink. Headband slicked back.

Girl pales. “Can I, start you off with some coffee?”

Rock chick turned Miss Middle fuckin’ America. “You can start me off with some answers.” No wonder nobody knew her description.

Eyes dart. “Please. I’m working.”

 _And I’m borderline homicidal._ “You know something about my brother.”

She sighs. “I don’t. I really don’t. Please, just – ”

“Bring me some coffee.” Rethink.

Thunk.

Conjure Sam’s _c’mon, Miss, you know you can trust me_. “Hey ahh,” nametag, nametag, “Sally. ’M sorry I was rude. I’d really like to talk to you, when you have a minute.”

Glossy pink pinched mouth. “I can’t.”

“Please?” A practiced, sheepish smile. “I just wanna find my baby brother. I look out for the kid, y’know?”

“I’m sorry.” Aaannd adios.

Fuck.

Sip. Stare.

Bill. Red-polished nail, tap-tap. Flip:

_Tithonos_

Dead run.

Calling card. Dad’ll kill him.

_“Singer Salvage”_

“Bobby! What have you got on ahh… Tithonos?”

_“Your daddy know you’re callin _’_ me, boy?”_

“No, sir.”

_“Dean, I – ”_

“I know, Bobby. I do. But it’s Sam. And he’s – ”

_“That thing got him, didn’t it? Told that stubborn son of a – Never mind.”_

Rustling.

_“Tithonos, you said?”_

“Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.”

_“Don’t mention it. And I mean that. Your daddy gets word I spoke to you we’re both skinned.”_

“I know. I know. Thank you.”

_“Okay. Tithonos. Beloved of Eos, blah blah blah… Well. She “went to ask the dark-clouded Son of Kronos that he should be deathless and live eternally.” That’d be Zeus, and err, huh. She didn’t ask for eternal youth, so… Tithonos got too old to get around and… she locked him in a room. Nice lady.”_

“Anything else?”

_“Not much. Prince of Troy, son of Laomedon. In some of the legends he gets turned into a cricket, which helps you not a – ”_

“Hang on. Laomedon?”

_“Uh-huh. Need me to dig up – ”_

“I don’t think so.” Rifle papers. “Son of a bitch.”

_“What’s that, son?”_

“A Titus Laomedoglou owns the café where Sam disappeared.” Ass hits a chair.

Quiet.

_“So-ah Dean, you need anything else?”_

“No, I… You’ve been a huge help, Bobby. Thank you.”

Roll it around. C’mon, link, link. Laomedoglou runs the coffee shop. Or, he’s just on the papers…

 _What do we know?_ Guys, seventeen or so, dropped off the face of the earth. Six days, old men turned up. Assume the old guys _were_ the young guys –

Pace. Piss. Check weapons. Prep spells.

Stare out the window.

Truck!

“Dad.” Spill. “What if she’s drainin’em? Stealin’ their, I dunno, youthful energy? Is that even possible?”

“I’d say almost anything’s possible with an immortal sociopath.”

Fair. “So we’re hittin’ the church?”

Dad nods. “Give it a couple more hours. Let ’em roll up the sidewalks downtown.”

“Sure.” Something he’s gotta do.

 

**

Diner lot. Stakeout, maybe, half an hour. Sally totes trash.

“Need some help?” Try for the bag.

She jerks it back. “I really can’t talk to you.”

Shrug. “Nobody’s around.” Follow. “Listen, I wanted to thank you for the tip.”

“You’re welcome! Now go!” Stage whisper bitching. Chucks the bag.

Fingers curl under an arm. “Wait. Just wait. Please? Tell me how you’re involved in all this.”

Wriggles free, “I’m,” doesn’t bolt, “Sally Reardon. And, I have the Internet. Okay?”

Reardon. Why does that sound – ? Whoa. “As in, Harold Reardon? The guy who – ”

“Disappeared four years ago. Yeah.” Studies the blacktop. “Hal was my brother. Nobody even tried to find him. That… _family._ ” Spits. “They own this town. And nobody from outside is gonna believe – ”

“That a literal Greek Titan is playin’ age vampire with the local kids?”

Sally looks up, eyes wet. “Yeah.”

Shoulder squeeze. “I believe you, Sally. And I’m gonna stop her.”

Snorts. “Sure.”

Two steps toward the car. “Hey one more thing. What was with the punk chick act yesterday?” Fuck, that was _yesterday_.

“I heard you guys talking in the diner. Figured you’d turn up at Bits.” Shrugs. “I thought, maybe, if I could get him outta there…”

“So you what, cooked up a disguise?”

“Pretty much.” Challenges. “Like you’ve never pretended to be somebody you’re not.”

She’s got him there.

“I hope you find your brother.” She heads for the diner.

“Thanks, Sally. And, I’m sorry about yours.”

“Yeah. Me too.”


	3. Chapter 3

Church back door lock. Picks snake. Easy tumblers. Click, creak, “Yahtzee.”

Dad squints jaw snaps. Dark doesn’t always mean deserted.

Draw. Step, step, pause. Eyes adjust.

Hallway. Faint light far end right. Offices. Dean’s left, _TITUS LAOMEDOGLOU, PASTOR._

Dad. Chin jerk. Slink past dark doors. T-junction. Left side, choir room? Right side stairs, left dogleg.

Dad nods left, climbs. Dogleg then. White curtain. Sanctuary. Carpeted dais, pulpit, choir loft, weird kinda, throne thing.

Hop up. Hang back. Main drag streetlights rows of pews.

Debate. Head down? Hug the edges? Looks like nothing. Visible from the street…

Car!

Hunker.

Glimmer. Down below the pulpit. Creep. Past a praying kind of altar, not a praying kind. Half-burned candles, white. Pink cloth. No. Twenty bucks says rose. Sunstones and rose quartz. Herbs. Tall clay jar, slim necked and corked. Sniff. Agh! Warn a guy.

Far side. White curtain, choir room.

Stairs.

No sound from Dad. Still. Old man could sneak up on a rabbit in dry leaves.

Down. Run into Dad, then the upstairs is clear. If the upstairs isn’t clear…

Fuck it.

Raw concrete floor. Painted half basketball court, hoop. Side rooms. Open. Empty.

_STORAGE_

Lockpicks.

Dollied folded furniture. Pantry shelves: paper plates, red cups, Kool Aid. Punch bowls platters…

Room ain’t big enough.

Screens, stretched rosy gauzy Sam-would-know on wood frames.

 _Looky here._ Wood paneling seam, draft.

Keypad. Twelve keys, nine pristine.

Get lucky. No more than eight or ten three-number comb –

Sam.

Folding cot pink cloth.

One stretched stride, kneel.

Baby brother. Closed eyes. Breathing. Young.

Tuck hair. Trace bones. Grip neck press faces. Share breath.

Eyes flutter, glassy and vacant. “De – ”

Signal hush.

Sam’s fingers flex. Knuckles to chest. Squints. A-amulet? “Ti – ”

“Has one of these?” Clutch leather cord. Dangle brass.

Nod. “Sundial.” Out.

Moan.

From behind.

“Sally I’m sorry.”

Old-timer. Oh, God.

Hal?

Then who the hell was the Alzheimer’s case in ’96?

Fuck it. Who and why can wait.

Storage room. Find Dad. Find Titus. Door crack freeze voices.

“When I drove by I _saw_ someone.” Male. “In the sanctuary.”

Fuck.

Female. “All the doors are locked, Ti. Who could be here?”

Ti. Tithowhatever? The man himself?

“That boy you took was a hunter, Aurora. I’m telling you – ”

“Bah,” Aurora interrupts. “No child that young is a hunter.”

Ti sighs. “Unless he was raised in it. They do that sometimes. Which means another hunter will be looking for him. A father or mother.”

“His father.” Dad’s voice.

Dare a peek.

Aurora laughs. Full lips. Wide mouth.

Dad holds a dripping hex bag, Zippo, the monsters’ attention.

“Let my son go and I’ll leave you in peace.”

If he could surprise the fucker…

“Do you think you can stop me, mortal?” Aurora nods at Titus, golden gown and brown curls tumbling near to the floor. He thumbs the sundial between his pecs.

That tickle again, like the café lot.

And all at once Aurora holds the spell, Dad’s gun.

Gotta get that necklace.

“And just what did you think you could do with this?” She ejects the clip. “You can’t shoot me, fool.” Clears the chamber.

Break for Titus.

“No, I can’t _kill_ you. But even immortals don’t get around so good without their kneecaps.”

Fingers closing back-of-neck chain end this. Titus spins, fist to solar plexus no… breath… Hands up. Circle. Air displacement from a screaming right hook. Jab the ribs.

Squealing and clapping. “Oh, you have a partner! Yes I saw this one. Is he also your son? He’s lovely.”

Fuckin’ bitch. Checkin’ out the goods while he’s… _Whoa._ Ti likes that hook. Drop the left. Sell tired. Take a glancing shot, two. Taut shoulder, old man wants this over. Wait. Duck.

Snatch.

Hit the ground, roll, pop up, block. Expect enraged Titus to come looking for scalp.

Except, Aurora screams.

Before this, he thought he’d seen some fucked up shit.

The dude he just fought ages a dozen, a hundred, fuck he guesses a few thousand years, pile of paper-dry skin over bones.

Stifle a gag.

Aurora flies at him, full on hellcat claws and fangs and –

“Wait!”

Sam?

Aurora’s head snaps around.

_Sammy. What’re you doin’?_

“I challenge you to a test of wits.”

Catch Dad’s eyes. Edge toward the stairs.

Aurora laughs. “You’re joking.”

Sam looks a little like a Greek god himself. Draped in rosy cloth, hair wild.

“You think to best me at riddles?” Brown eyes sparkle in a heart-shaped face.

And of course Sammy knew about the riddle thing. Kid is a-goddamn-mazing.

“What’s your stake?” Bold nose turns up.

“Your amulet.” All eyes. Sam curls his fingers.

Toss.

One-handed catch. “My brother won it in combat. Beat me and I will return it.”

“I could take it from you.”

“Before I destroy it?” Sam pinches the sundial.

“Fine.”

“And you’ll grant me a boon if I win.” Sam’s know-it-all face.

“Yes, yes.”

“Sammy,” Dad’s voice rough.

“You may go now.” Bitch dismisses them like peasants.

“I’m not leaving without you, son.”

Sam turns. “Dad, go.”

Awkward hug. Something crosses Dad’s face.

Aurora gripes, “Enough! Let’s begin, little one. What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, and has a bed but never sleeps?”

Sam scoffs. “A river.”

Picture eye-roll, grin.

“This thing all things devours: birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stones to meal; slays king, ruins town, and beats high mountain down.”

 _Really, Sammy? Bilbo Baggins?_ Aurora mumbling, repeating. Well if it works…

Dad jerks his chin. Upstairs.

“Time!” Aurora shouts. “It’s time!”

“Sam thinks we’ll find a weapon up here.” Dad cuts left. “One of these offices?”

Nod. Split up.

Can’t make out Sam and Aurora. Sometimes squealing and clapping, she’s doing well. Which, Sam too, if they’re still at it.

Pick locks, rifle desks, come up stone cold empty. Edge of panic. If Sammy loses…

Catch Dad coming from the pastor’s office. Heads shake.

“So we’ve got no Plan B if Sam’s riddle contest goes south.” Dad’s mouth twists.

 _Why send us up here, Sammy? What’d you think we’d find?_ “Don’t we have another banishing spell?”

“Two hex bags. Only came up with enough ambrosia for one.”

“Dad? What does ambrosia smell like?”

 

**

Sam’s circled. “The builder doesn't need me, the buyer doesn't use me, and the user doesn't want me.” Led Aurora so her back’s to the stairs. _Attaboy_.

[ ](https://40.media.tumblr.com/2abf6c8c5caf2004e090062327a6695a/tumblr_inline_ntvcapPvuP1tx6x4i_540.png)

“The builder doesn’t…” Aurora mutters, chews her thumbnail.

_Ain’t gonna know I’m here ’til I strike the match._

“The user doesn’t want… What do I use that I don’t want?”

Sam spots him. “Do you give up?” Narrow eyes say _wait_.

“Nonono. Not yet, I… The buyer doesn’t…”

Hide.

“Aurora.” Sam approaches her, weirdly… fond. “I’ve won.” Can’t get the rest.

“You’re a clever boy.” Hand on Sam’s cheek. “Worthy of my affection.” Head bows. “But I suppose you wish your freedom.”

“Yes,” Sam kisses her forehead. “And I ask that you bind Tithonos to yourself.”

“I’m already bound to him, he’s m – ”

“No.” Long fingers tangle in coffee curls. “Stop killing. Give him your youth.”

“But that would mean – ”

“You have infinite years, Aurora.”

“I’d age.”

“A fixed amount.” Sam sultry-smiles. “You’d be no less beautiful.”

Epic weird shit. Look somewhere else.

“And Tithonos?”

“I’m not sure. Same as you, I imagine?”

“No.”

Sam steps back. “Then, my brother will banish you and I’ll smash – ” dangles the amulet, “what is this, a trinket from Cronus? Your love’s lifeline, anyway.”

Come outta hiding. Snick.

“Stop!” Aurora flinches. “I’ll do it.”

“No more boys,” Sam insists.

“I swear.”

“Get the spell ready.”

 

**

Watch Titus’s Lincoln drive off from his church. Dad heads out the opposite way.

“You think she’ll be okay?” Sam shares the back with Hal.

“You sweet on her or somethin’, Sammy?”

“No! It’s just…” Huffs. “What she did was awful, I know, but… It wasn’t completely her fault. She’s been living with that curse for what, three thousand years? More? It’s a wonder she hasn’t done worse.”

Dad grumbles, “That’s not an excuse, Sam.”

“I know.” Sam sighs. “But – ”

“But nothin’.” Stop this bullshit right here. “Sometimes you get a shitty hand. But you don’t go darkside unless you choose to.” Crinkle brow. “One thing I don’t get though. How’s our buddy Hal here still alive? I thought her vics died of old age in six days.”

Sam leans up. “The six days were to transfer the youth spell. All the old men were her previous vics. She kept ’em around for four or five years ’til they got too old to sustain Tithonos.”

“And turned ’em loose when they outlived their usefulness.” Bobby was right. Nice lady. “I can’t believe we let her go.”

“We’ll keep tabs on her, son. Any more boys go missing…”

“Yeah.”

Drop Hal at the ER. Guide him most of the way to the doors.

Squint-flash somebody’s home. “Tell Sally…”

Blink.

Vacant.

“You got it, old-timer.”


	4. Chapter 4

Morning.

Dad’s cell. “Yeah, Jim.”

Sam stirs, stretches.

“No shit?”

Huge hand drags spine. Shiver.

“Yeah me and the boys just wrapped one up. We can be there today.”

Sam tenses.

Sit up. Rub eye crud. Mattress shifts, Sammy rolls out, jeans fishing.

Dad’s phone snaps. “Up and at ’em boys. Black dog in Cedar Rapids. We’ll head up to Blue Earth and – ”

“What about school?”

“What _about_ school, Sam? We got a job. School can wait.”

“Dad. I should be taking AP classes. You can’t just blow those – ”

“What’s your deal with AP anyway? Not like you’re going to college.”

“Oh, really? News flash, Dad. It is possible, I might not want to do this forever!”

Dad snorts. “It’s who you are, Sam. Now get packing. You were under a serious spell and I’m not leaving you – ”

“I don’t need a freaking babysitter.”

“What if I stayed with him?”

Two heads, two glares.

“Y’know, hang around a few days, make sure Sam’s okay. Once he’s settled I’ll meet up with you.” _C’mon, Dad._ “You and Jim can handle one piss-ass black dog.”

Dad relents. “Fine.” Granite voice though. “I want twice-daily check-ins.”

“Done.” Unison.

“And you,” Dad’s finger Sam’s face. “You go to school, you come straight back to the motel.”

“Dad, I – ”

“I’m not finished! You need the library, Dean goes with you. You want food, Dean goes with you. You take a piss, Dean goes with you.”

 _We got this, Sammy, don’t push it._ Sam slumps. “Fine.” Stalks to the bathroom. Shower cranks.

Dad packs. Razor silence.

“You and Jim, you got this, right?”

Dad barks a non-answer.

“Look, if shit gets hairy, call me. I can be there in – ”

“Just look after your brother.” Dad slings a couple of bags over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir.”

“You okay on cash?”

“Yes, sir. And Champaign’s right up the road.” Big grin. “College boys, y’know? Candy from a ba – ”

Dad levels his eyes. “I told you to keep an eye on Sam.”

Grin dissolves. “Yes, sir.”

“Talk to you at check-in.”

“Yes, sir. Stay safe.”

Scoff. “Yeah.” Out.

Shower off.

Putter. Pack.

Sam brushes his teeth.

Giant feet and bony ankles. Curved hair-dusted calves. Lean thighs in damp white blue-striped boxers, clingy, see-through. Skinny waist, muscles buckling. Thickening shoulders. Hair sticking up.

Sam bends to spit. Boxers ride.

Swallow.

[ ](https://41.media.tumblr.com/763b7cf71e1a20b708fc91b8ff786db8/tumblr_inline_ntvce8YSaF1tx6x4i_540.jpg)

“So-uh, Sally won’t get to the diner before, what, four? We got us a day to kill, Sammy-boy.”

“Cool.”

“There’s a Sonic in town. You want breakfast?”

Sam stretches, fingers brush the ceiling. “Mmm, sounds good.” Ten square miles of skin all bunched and strained, shorts crease his ass. Shit eatin’ grin. “And jalapeños are totally vegetables.”

“No, dude. They’re berries. I looked that shit up.”

All Sam’s teeth show.

“Get dressed, Buttercup.” Duffle. “Daylight’s burnin’.” Door.

“Does that make you Blossom or Bubbles?”

Wow. Walk into one, Winchester. “Shaddup.”

“Buttercup’s the badass one!”

“Shaddup!”

Office. Checkout.

 

**

After Sonic, Bits again, promised frou-frou coffee and decent-school search. Can’t lick Sam’s face in public, but if he… with his thumb…

Okay Sam’s skirting but that was a kiss. Same thumb, own lips.

Sam colors. Eyes on the screen.

 

Hard as he tried, where he objectified, Sam identified.

Never wired for kids that way _thank fuck_ , he should probably add. Moist eyes over dimples. Skinny arms and deer legs. Saw perverts looking. Made sure they saw him see.

 

“Sweet!” Sam blurts.

“Find someplace good?”

“Yeah. And only fifty miles or so!”

Fifty miles. Flophouse out that way. Seed of a plan.

“Enrolled tomorrow, boy genius. That ain’t bad.”

“I’ll be so far behind.”

“Ehh.” Tuck hair. “Way I see it you started out way ahead of those losers. Worst case? A couple started catchin’ up.”

Wide worshipful eyes.

Squirm. Wrist in Sam’s grip.

 

Fifteen. “I tutored Lydia in algebra.”

“Blonde roots black tips Lydia?”

“She paid me in weed.” Unfisted a pair of chubby joints.

“Dad can _not_ catch you with those.”

“Help me get rid of them?” Devious.

Probably the first crime he did with Sam.

Well. Not counting weapons offenses, obviously.

 

“Let’s get outta here, huh? Maybe catch a movie? I bet _X-Men_ ’s still playin’.”

Eyes roll. “How many times can you actually watch that?”

“Until Wolverine quits bein’ a badass. Now drink your bitch coffee and let’s roll.”

 

**

Multiplex.

_HOURS  
MON-THU, 1PM –_

Dammit.

Cruise around. Find a park! Cut in an angled space and backhand Sam. “C’mon.”

“Widdie Dean wanna pway on the swings?” Fat pout.

Oughta bite it. “Shut up, dick. Twenty bucks says we got a football in the trunk.”

“And you’re gonna dig around this trunk, on a city street, in broad daylight.” Chin up. “Dear Lord, please look after my idiot brother, who is determined to get us thrown in jail.”

Exaggerate a sigh.

Football! Which… hasn’t got a lotta air. Less passing more whipping. Sam nails him, breadbasket. Almighty stinger.

“Oh that’s _it._ ” Growl. Full tilt, roll tackle.

“Fuckin’ jerk,” Back flat in the dirt.

“Whiny bitch.”

Offer football, Sam swipes. Pull back, Lucy-style, and…

Keep-Away-From-Sammy! Spring up sprint off, Sam closes fast. Long fuckin’ unfair leg advantage.

Low branch. Launch. Hook, hoist, kick off grabby hands. Up a level, two –

“Ha-ha!” Crow. Dangle the mostly flat football over his brother’s head. “Now what’re you gonna do?”

Hilarity. Sam doubles over against the trunk. “What’re _you_ gonna do, dumbass? You have heard the word _treed_ right? I give it fifteen minutes tops before you get bored and climb down.”

Damn.

Base of the tree, Sam picks at the ground. Grass whistle’s unholy screech.

Leg on a branch and one swinging. Throw a football. Climb a tree. Can’t remember the last time they did this shit.

 

Oregon. Sophomore Sam took chemistry with a senior cheerleader. Bitch asked, “Study buddies?” one day after she saw him pick up Sam from school.

“C’mon, baby.” Some bullshit put her in his face outside the room where Sam dutifully studied. “Anything you want.”

“You know what I want?”

Hands on his collar. Nails on his throat. “Hm?”

“Look at Sam.” Turned her toward the open drapes, smoke-yellow sheers. “You’re chasin’ the wrong brother, sweetheart.” Chest to back. Arm around her shoulders crooked below her chin. “Girl like you?” Whispered. “You know he’ll be grateful.” Hand on her elbow. “Eager.” Slid up her arm. “Hungry.”

Sam saw. Window reflected him cuddled up and dirty-talking the girl Sam brought home. Braced for rolled eyes, hitched shoulders, folded arms.

Except. Sam pinned him. Wicked triumph, slow-growin’ smokin’ grin.

Noticed the girl gone rigor mortis. Turned her loose.

“I should go,” she said to his reflection.

“Yeah.”

 

Can’t be more than fifteen minutes (so smart, Sammy) ’til his ass aches and he’s hype for the ground.

Huck the football, roll. Toe down. Little arm dangle and a short drop.

Sam palms the ball. “Are we done with this now?”

Brush off bark and shit. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

**

Gas-N-Sip, sneaky snacks.

Popcorn on principle.

Thursday matinee, just them. Throw Mike and Ikes and boo Magneto. Cheer Wolverine. Catcall Jean Grey.

Sam watches him more than the movie. Neck prickles. Smell Sam, under popcorn candy and clandestine Dr. Peppers, under fancy-ass deodorant. Sam-smell. Pairs well with industrial motel laundry soap and unleaded and musty old books.

Elbow hook seat back. Mess up Sam’s hair. All-color eyes change with the screen. Freeze. Wide nose, bow mouth, cleft chin. Wrist thunders against Sam’s ear. Bet he could kiss every mole on this face with his eyes closed.

Sam tips his head. Tongue peeks.

[ ](https://40.media.tumblr.com/e6ace660582846749f8a887eeea162fe/tumblr_inline_ntvcdifpSt1tx6x4i_540.jpg)

Curl fingers in floppy hair. Dry lips feather brush pull back. Sam flushes. Tastes where they touched.

Grab a shoulder and haul Sam in. Gorilla arm droops off the armrest. Fingertips graze denim knee.

 

**

Diner. Not that they’re hungry. Split cheese fries sip sodas. Kill time.

Sam leg-stretches. Slides a foot forward. Ankle-to-ankle. Live wire.

Sally comes in. Pass a note when she rings up their bill.

_Mintikwa Memorial. John Doe. Dementia._

Gawking, then, “Hal?”

“I dunno if he’ll recognize you, but…” Sympathy. “He remembers your name.”

“Thank you.” Watch her go, face wiping.


	5. Chapter 5

Friday after school. Project: Inventory. Clean and organize the arsenal.

“How am I supposed to do homework?”

Hunter’s flophouse. Hour’s drive.

“With a pen? I guess? Do your homework. I need a project, and I promised to keep an eye on you.” Hands on both shoulders. “C’mon. It’s your very own Geek Retreat. I’ll get you back for school on Monday. Promise.”

Thirty miles out. Thunderheads. Sam hunkers, vee legged. Arm out the window lurches in slipstreams.

Relaxed.

Weird.

“Sam?”

 

Front seat meant freaked, flyin’ under the radar ’cause _Cops Asked Questions._ Dad tired drunk or cut up in the back. Sam curled up beside him, leg for a pillow. Drove left, petted right.

 

“Mm-hm.”

“Why come up here with me?”

“Because you promised Dad – ”

“And when do you ever go along with Dad without so much as a _but?"_

Clouds flicker.

Defensive hands. “I do exactly what Dad wants, all the freakin’ time. Tha – ”

“When it’s something you wanted to do anyway.”

Sam picks his nails.

“So why, did you want, to come up here with me?”

Shoulders bristle. “Why are you stalling?” Thunder rumbles. “I’m seventeen. Legal.”

“Well. Legal’s relative when you’re relat – ”

Fingercounts. “Not a virgin anymore. Which you knew – ”

“When you popped that cherry on a stick? Fuckin’-a I kn – ”

 _“Dean!”_ Chin jerk. “Which you knew from the jump. ’Cause you flipped a switch.”

“And you lit up like Christmas.”

“We’ve been dating!”

Crackle. Spiderweb sparks.

“I thought you’d be all over a summer romance.”

“You don’t think it’s wrong?”

Quiet. “Oh it’s wrong all right just, not my worst sin.”

Rain pelts, big fat drops. Windows up. Knife-edge.

“Is that what I am to you? A sin?”

“Sammy, you’re – ” hand on Sam’s neck – “everything – ” eyes on the road.

 

**

Boom. “Hey Sammy?”

“Mm-hm.”

Wipers can’t keep up. “You could have all the tail you want. You get that.”

“I… guess…”

Ease off the gas. “You could pull all the ass. And if you put aside the, brother thing – ”

“Pretty big thing to put aside.”

“Yeah, I get that. But…” Lightning spikes. “I gotta know. Why me?”

Thunder lingers, pulses toward the horizon, tapers.

“Because… all your favorite sex stories end, ‘…she came _so hard_.’”

 

**

Sweating seventy.

Sam’s palms Sam’s jeans Sam’s…

Tongue keeps running out. No use. No spit.

 

**

Byway, out-of-the-way, driveway. Gravel ribbon cut through cornrows. Quarter mile or so. Single story. Dusty white. Screened-in porch and steel-core doors.

“Get the garage, willya?”

Out back. Door’s locked but tricked. Pull the handle, kinda hip check the third panel up. Locks jump tracks, door rolls open.

Sam faces the car. Fingers. Abs, pecs, neck. Head roll. Thumb. Belt buckle. Middle finger zipper tracer.

Park this car and get out before someone gets hurt.

Bang into the driver door. Sam, all teeth and anguish. Finger-hook belt loops. Suck tongues.

Could spread Sam out right here, fuck his baby brother up against his baby, make Sam come ’til he can’t see. Okay that’s… yeah… just… not now.

Sam pants. Pulls shirts. “Want skin.”

Only get one first.

“Yeah but let’s – let’s take it inside, huh?”

“Unload later.”

Incendiary grin. “Sure thing, Tarzan.”

Door barely shuts and Sam’s peeling clothes. “Strip.”

“No romance, Sammy? No candles?” Surfaces on which Sam is about to get fucked. Countertop, one or more of those barstools. T-shirt off. Hope the couch pulls out. Is that a hammock? Belt buckle. Button.

Not quick enough. Naked Sam huge hands waistband knees. Sam’s dick. Sweat greased hip crease. Grabass and grind. Sam’s eyes, wild and wide.

“You gonna come little brother?” Fingers creep. “Just from this?” That table. Over the porch rail. Spread cheeks dip tease.

“Dean…”

Inhale a roar. Suck a mark under Sam’s thrown back chin. Hump it out with him.

Sam sinks. Eyes up. O. Teeth tucked in his lips. Soft. Bobs, swallows, licks. Fingers circle roll stroke. Tongue flaps along the ridge, flat laps the crown. Down. Cockhead nudges throat shudder. Up. Locks hard and sucks. Wet swirling. Slit tickle. Works the length. Lips fist spit.

No more than forty-five seconds. Blind. Call out _God_ or _Sammy_ or _Unnghh._ Slump.

Sam grips. Drinks.

“Jesus, Sam.” Pants ankle mast. Kneel. Eat his traces off his brother’s face.

Sam manhandles. “I know,” mouth, knees, “you like your scalp scratched when you’re down on someone.” Jockeys. “I know you like noisy,” hands, hair, “and a little bossy.” Teeth. “I know to bite your nipples and suck your balls.” Tongue, lips, chin. “All this time you were teasing me? You were training me.”

Calves bump soft. Couch. Sam _would_ be a perverted genius too.

Lap full of brother. Kiss. Grope. Palms jaws fingers nipples knuckles hips thighs.

Hands drift. Pet. Dip. Squeeze Sam’s cheeks apart. Buck up.

Sam swear-to-god sobs. “Bedroom.”

“Oh, what, now you want candles and romance?”

Deep breath. “No.” Deep voice. “I want room to throw you around.”

“Oh we’ll see about that.” Firm shove, half-race-half-wrestling-match to the bedroom, bed.

Barrel in, Sam spins. Plants him face up. Knee between his thighs mattress dips beside his ears slick sweaty.

“So you gonna open me or you wanna watch me do it?”

 

**

Two fingers three knuckles deep, thrust, poke and curl. Sam clutches the headboard, hands banned. Hair-pully and punished.

Knees up and wiggling, “Please, Dean… touch me or… or lemme…”

“Uh-uh.” Microscopic drumming. Sam seizes. “Still a chance you might come on my cock.”

“Deeeaaannnn” like thirteen syllables long.

“And when you blow? I’ma make you shoot your chin, Sammy. Gonna come _so hard_.”

Sam’s spine ripples a stadium wave.

 

**

Tight.

Oh, god.

Knew that. Gone backdoor before. Still. Kid’s squeezing him lightheaded.

“Sam you gotta relax.”

Eyes unfocused, all pupil. “Oh.”

“Sam you with me?”

Snap. “Dean, I – ”

“You okay? Does it hurt?” Pull bac –

“No!” Rock. “Do it.”

Sam’s exhale goes moan goes wail. Face neck shoulders sweat. Boner wilted, half-mast. Eyes closed. Hands in piles of twisted bedspread.

Clutch Sam’s calf dig in the mattress burning up in there. Wanna thrust so bad wanna drag. Seizing circle friction, breathe. Ankle kiss. Hip twist. Don’t pump just swirl.

“Dean…” Almost sounds surprised.

Again. “You like that, Sammy?”

Long, shuddery moan.

Drop a kiss on Sam's breastbone.

Sam’s hands, shoulder squeeze. “Move, goddammit.” Gritted teeth.

Smirk. “The mouth on you.” Slide out, glacier slow. Watch. Clenching stretching fire. Don’t come yet.

Press down Sam’s eyes roll up. Kid howls. Hips hitch and swallow inches. “God so good so full Dean more.” Fucks himself from underneath.

Hook long legs over shoulders, grip hips pound. Balls bounce. Sam’s stomach trembles, hole flexes, fingers scratch and scrabble. Figure eights and circles, searching…

“Ohhhh mygod!”

Thaaaat’s the spot. _Good god so fuckin’ hot could die right here._

“Dean please so close need – ” Reaches for his dick.

Slap hands away. “I got you, Sammy.” Three or four quick strokes and holy shit can’t even move that ass so tight gonna –

Whiteout.

 

**

Ground rules. “No screwing around on the job.” Because, perving his eye off the ball. “And not just us. Girls. Sally coulda been the monster. We gotta – ”

“ _You_ gotta – ”

“I gotta – ” fair point – “rescue first, bang second.”

Sam goes whole mouth at his nipple.

“You’re a poet.”

Wide jaw teeth ring.

Hiss. “I am, huh?”

Thumbs between ribs.

“Oh and hey, monster memo – ”

Tongue tip pendulum…

“Pretty girls are Winchester Kryptonite.”

Licking him raw.

“But also ah-ah-ah, spinach, Sammy.”

Bite, spike, rush.

 

**

Balls deep in his baby brother watching back of neck sweat collect. Take that with teeth.

Spit. Circle.

Sam rails himself, fist on his dick. Back and forth comes screaming _Dean_.

 

**

“Still don’t know why we waited so long.” Licks jizz off their fingers like KFC.

“I thought, why not enjoy it? Make it last. We do this, I’ll be out of your system. Next little punk rock chick won’t – ”

“Why would you say that?”

“Say…?”

“You’d be out of my system?”

“Because,” brain, flap flap, “because… the alternative is…?”

“What is this, Dean? I put out and you’re done with me?”

“What? No!”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“I meant…” Jeans up. “You’re better.”

“Come again?”

“Huh-haahh. Maybe later.”

“Dean.”

“C'mon, Sammy. Look at me. I’ll bet you my estate, which pretty much consists of that car, that I’ve already put in more than half my years on Earth.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Dean.”

“And you’re the one got a hard-on for ‘normal.’” Half scoff. “So tell me where, in your nirvana, does fucking your monster hunter brother fit?”

Ohh, too far.

Sam’s look coulda raised a frost. “So. I’m no different than one of your waitresses.”

Ohh, dear god.

“Bullshit. You are a way better lay than – ”

“You can’t take anything seriously.”

“Nope.” Still shirtless. Maybe ask Sam’s nipple. “Do I have to?” Tongue. Teeth. Breath. “Can’t we just, have this? For a while?”

“Dean, you – ”

“Never said I was dumping you.” Ask the other nipple. “You wanna stop?”

“No.”

“Good. ’Cause there’s at least five things in this house I haven’t nailed you up against.”

Core muscles relax against his tongue. Soft laugh. “Floor only counts once.”

“Nuh-uh. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. I got one outta four.”

“I’m not fucking you on that bathroom – ”

 

**

Saturday afternoon. Sam takes up half the bar separating the kitchen, living room. Fat books, spiral bounds, that calculator Dad scrounged.

Table. Settle. Trash bag stacked newsprint. Pistol duffle at his feet.

 

Two summers ago: “How do you talk to girls?”

Fuckin’ kitsune. Shoulda been there with Sam. Shoulda squeezed his shoulders fixed his hair _go get ’em, champ._

 

Desert Eagle. Drop the mag, check the chamber. Safe direction, pull the trigger. Pop the barrel, strip the slide. Gas piston and recoil spring. Firing pin. Bolt, retainer. Safety.

 

Week later, “Hey, I meant to ask you. How’d it go with the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The girl you asked me how to talk to!”

“There was no girl.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“I was just asking… hypothetically.”

“Bullshit.”

Sam never breathed.

 

CLP, half a t-shirt that damned chupacabra didn’t eat. Bronze brush the barrel. Q-tips. Old toothbrush. Scrub foul and powder outta tight spots.

 

Gave up nothing on Mr. October either.

“I jerked off a lot. Tried a new cologne.”

Like he was an idiot!

Empty trash, made beds. Winchester permanent _DO NOT DISTURB_. Knew the maid didn’t do it.

 

Secret weapon, 5W/30 synthetic. Eyedropper. Touch on the bolt. Drip down the slide.

Wipe down. Re-seat safety, firing pin.

“Motherfucker,” Sam mutters.

Bolt and retaining pin.

“Everything okay there, Good Will Hunting?”

Gas piston. Recoil spring.

“Yeah, just… fucking calculus.”

Slip the slide on the frame. Attach the barrel.

Barstool spin. Stretch.

Test. Check the action. Safe direction, trigger pull.

Belly skin, drawn taut.

Empty mag. Rack back. Drop clip.

Droopy Jayhawks pants.

Safety on.

Treasure trail.

Cock, trigger pull, nothin’. Hammer up.

Speaking of up…

Chair legs catch-bump cheap linoleum. Floorboards creak.

Sam grins into his mouth.

Whisper.

“You cannot have sex with me in a hammock.”

“Twenty bucks says you’re wrong.”

“No, you _may_ not have sex with me in a hammock.”

“Prude.”

 

**

Jameson.

“You ever think about quitting?” Sam’s eyes kinda, almost match the booze.

“What, drinkin’? Why wou – ”

“Hunting.”

 

First time Dean got drunk he still smelled like Sonny’s aftershave. Dad went down on half a bottle. Swiped the other half for himself.

 

“Nahhh.”

“Never in your whole life.”

Head shake. “But you, you _should_ get out. Look at you, Sammy. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Oughta have a life-uh a wife. Grandkids.”

“While you what, die alone when some freak gets the drop on you?”

 

Puked so violently, strained an oblique. Ever since then…

 

“I’m goin’ for alcohol poisoning. Twenty-Seven Club.”

 

**

Wrists pinned. Sam rodeos. Hips stutter.

 

**

Sunday morning sore. Gotta get Sam to the motel, school. Try for two or three more days before Dad issues a summons. Separates them.

Shower. Shave. Brush. Cap that toothpaste.

 

Travel tubes stole easy. Tossed easy, almost empty at _time to move on_. Grabbed another in the next town.

“We waste.” Nine years old, allowance spent. “I will let you share my toothpaste, but you have to keep the lid on and don’t make a mess.”

 

Sam loads up pistols, sawed-offs, rifles. Silver, salt, and iron rounds.

Dress. Boxers blue jeans boots. Faded t-shirt. Duffel.

 

Sam came to die on Colgate Hill.

“Don’t squeeze the middle, jerk!”

“Middle huh? Like this?” Tickle war.

 

Creak open driver door. “Scootch, Sasquatch.”

Flophouse locked down.

Kid winces his way to shotgun. Grin. Ain’t the only one sore.

Engine roars, guitar chords, life score.

Glance right. Sam’s eyes dart. “Hey.” Shoulder punch. “Not freakin’ out, are ya?”

“No.” Liar.

Wait him out. Tires eat up miles.

“You’re better, too, y’know.”

“Sam…”

“I just – ” Huff. Bangs up. “I don’t wanna hear any more of that Twenty-Seven Club bullshit. Okay?”

Is that all? “Sure thing, Sammy. Whatever you say.”

“I mean it!” Soulful stare. “And no more talk about getting you outta my system either.”

 _Dammit, Sam._ AP’s, SAT’s, glossy brochures. Heart a full-on _Alien_ through his ribs. “I promise.”

Narrow blacktop arrows. Drive hard toward the vanishing point.


End file.
